


The Hollow Circle

by linwesingollo



Category: Lord of the Rings - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-17
Updated: 2012-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:49:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linwesingollo/pseuds/linwesingollo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This short piece written for Winter Solstice/Yule is inspired by a Sacred Harp Singing I participated in once upon a time in the southern U.S.<br/>It was a powerful, unforgettable experience which I have tried to duplicate here as best I could, albeit a few “hobbitized” alterations. In actuality, the singers form a hollow square, but I figured hobbits were all about circles and roundness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hollow Circle

“It’ll be a good night,“ Sam assured Frodo as they crunched across the frosty field towards a copse of trees on Tom Cotton‘s land. Frodo nodded without glancing at him. Sam tried to convince himself that it had been a fair enough afternoon so far. He and Frodo had spent most of the day gathering, then trimming Bag End with evergreens in preparation for Yule - mostly at Sam‘s insistence. He'd had to practically drag Frodo out from his library. Yule was Sam's favorite time of the year, and by his own hands, the presents had been wrapped, the spiced cider mixed and the plum pudding been made. The hole-bound comfort of a quiet winter evening had wrapped around him like a warm cloak, even if he had had to stand helplessly by and watch Frodo slowly sinking into one of his dark, unreachable moods as the evening wore on, leaving Sam behind to fret and worry. It also left him to do most of the work but he minded that the least. He could tend to Bag End's needs at least if not to Frodo's. The old darkness gripped Frodo still and it pained Sam something fierce. It had taken a great deal of convincing on his part to get him to leave their warm, hearth-lit nest to attend the Singing in the cold and dark, but he had finally given in to his persistence with a wan smile and weary grace.

They walked in silence, and as they walked, Sam futilely sought for words that would bring Frodo back. The others came, too, from all points of the Shire, in two and threes, in sixes and sevens, some alone, many in their best Yule clothes - from the old time-worn gaffers prodding the frozen ground with their supports, to the wide-eyed, shivering ‘tweens attending their first Singing - all of them leaving behind the sweet warmth and comfort of the Yule hearth, their feet crunching in the frost-bitten grass under a pale sickle moon sharpening to silver They came bearing lamps and candles, and behind them followed their wives, sisters, mothers, carrying brimming bundles and baskets, taking their place near the bon-fire, ready to do their homely work of tending to thirsty throats and hungry stomachs.

The scents of wood and wax, smoke and frost filled their reddened noses as they shuffled about greeting one another until they formed themselves into a rough hollow circle around Tom, facing him, separating themselves into farthings according to the pitch of their voices.

Without preamble, Tom took his place in the center of the Circle, calling out an Invocation from among hundreds of the old songs of power passed down from their long-fathers in the days of their wanderings; songs that held back the dark and pled for the return of the Sun. With a voice more used to giving rough orders to his livestock, Tom sang out the opening tones. Instantly, the four farthings sought their pitch. Up and down they intoned, tasting the sounds, polishing and sharpening and testing them against one another before joining in one final chord. With a deep breath and focused hearts, they lifted their heads and sang with throats more accustomed to the easy, well-worn songs of hearth and field, cradle or pub. The dark mid-winter music was stark and raw, bare of sweetness and full of power.

The old farmer stood in the center beating the rhythm with his hand until they opened their hearts and poured out their love and hope and grief like a soft spring rain falling on their orchards and fields. The music rose to the night sky as a solid, living thing, a mighty tree sown by the seeds of their music.

The shout and glory of it thrummed in Sam’s chest and shook his bones. For hours they sang, as song after song was called out and the music continued to rise like a mighty flame, hanging in the cold air to stave off the darkness and fear. The frozen earth beneath them tilted and wheeled.

Please…thought Sam, seeking Frodo‘s eyes. Please…

Old Tom’s hand rose and fell relentlessly, demanding their all.

“As long as there is life and movement in my being, I will be here for you, for you!” Sam roared with his farthing.

The trees and stars caught the echoes and flung them back.

“And so shall I be with you! Do I not love thee? Behold my heart and see!” Promised the others with sweet assurance.

But Sam heard only Frodo’s voice as the Sun of the new year rose above the frozen earth.


End file.
